


The Favorite

by guardofvariansbutt



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Child Abuse, Heavy Angst, Original Character Death(s), Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardofvariansbutt/pseuds/guardofvariansbutt
Summary: Based off the backstory of my Inquisitor, Isaiah. This takes place 10 years before the Inquisition.





	The Favorite

**Author's Note:**

> Nazirath is not my oc, she belongs to negasonicteenaged-whattheshit on tumblr. Posted and written with permission. This fanfic takes place before my other, Three Brothers. Originally posted on my da tumblr, isaiah-dalishblood

Morning came and Isaiah woke feeling as if he had overslept. However, seeing the sun low in the sky outside, he saw he was wrong. However, he had to get to work right away or else he would get punished for slacking. Isaiah was an elf slave, and only seventeen years old. Being born into it, his master was a Tevinter magister named Emerson Ashwell. He was a monster of a man, practicing blood magic in the secrecy of his home. Blood magic was largely considered taboo in the southern parts of Thedas, and even outlawed by the Chantry, but in Tevinter it was a different story. Unlike the rest of Thedas, mages had the power here and blood magic flowed more often than the Magisters who ruled the land would like to admit.

As he started to get ready for the day, he saw his mother. He turned away, wanting to avoid her. The night before the two of them got into a little fight and it had left him sour. He was angry because then he felt as if it was her fault he was a slave because she was the one who had a kid while being a slave herself. Isaiah had never even known his father, Emerson had killed him before he was born as a way to punish his mother for having a kid.

He walked upstairs, the first duties of the day were usually cleaning. He spotted Emerson and his daughter Nazirath in the room and quickly turned to walk away as if he was never there. But it was too late, the man had spotted him.

“Blood bag, you’re awake early. Come here.” He called out.

He hesitated for a moment, but then walked over before he got angry. Ever since he was a child Emerson had taken a favoritism with using his blood to fuel his magic, against his will, hence the nickname. Emerson was a tall man in his fifties with a terra-cotta skin tone; he had short black hair and a neatly trimmed balbo beard and mustache. He usually wore the latest of Tevinter fashion, his robes decorated in fine metals and the robes made of the most precious of cloths to show off his wealth. His daughter had many resemblances, she was only a few years older than Isaiah at twenty. Emerson had a total of five children, four older boys and her as the youngest of them, but none the less cruel. Nazirath had the same skin tone with long black hair and piercing yellow eyes. She decorated herself in fine jewelry where ever she could, although it was made with an odd material; not any metal. There was rumors around the slaves’ quarters that her jewelry was made of carved elf bones, although Isaiah was not sure if he believed them. Her outfit was scantily clad ‘robes’, showing off her assets.

Emerson grabbed Isaiah’s wrist, pulling his arm upward. He then grabbed a dagger from within his coat and dragged it across the elf’s wrist. Isaiah winced, but he was used to the pain. Nazirath stood in the background, watching the scene unfold with a wicked smirk on her face.

“You’re not a child anymore, but your blood is still so young. So strong.” Emerson said as he scooped up a small amount of blood on the dagger and inspected it.

“I loathe to say this, elf, but your blood is my favorite. Perhaps your mother wasn’t such a whore after all, but a thankful servant giving me a gift.”

Isaiah kept his head low, fearful to say anything although he wanted to defend his mother, even after their recent fight. Honestly, his mother had been kind to him. Healed him when he was hurt, risked getting herself in trouble by stealing food just so he would not go hungry; or go hungry herself by giving him her share. If it was not for their situation, she would have been a great mother. Her name was Dirana and she had not always been a slave. Once she was with the dalish until her clan was attacked by Tevinter slave hunters. The survivors were sold into slavery, where she ended up with Emerson. She had short bright red hair, like him and a sun-kissed skin tone. She was of average height and in her forties. Having been dalish, she had the tattoos on her face to show it. Isaiah had always admired them and thought they made her look beautiful.

“I would never gift him to you.” The voice was low, barely audible, but both of them had heard it.

Isaiah turned and saw his mother by the door. He had not known how long she had been there. Emerson turned in a fury, rushing towards her and pushing Isaiah out of the way as he did so.

“How dare you speak without permission.” He shouted.

“He’s not yours, and never will be.” His mother said.

There was a fury in Emerson’s eyes, his expression turning into a scowl. He grabbed a handful of her auburn hair and forcefully pulled her so he was right in her face. “You own nothing slave.”

There was nothing Isaiah could do, if he intervened, Emerson would punish him again or hurt his mother even worse. He had learned to try his best to ignore it, if he looked away then it was easier to ignore. Emerson let mother go and she fell to the floor, composing herself. He then walked back over to Isaiah. “Now, who do you belong to?”

Isaiah froze, why couldn’t he say anything? He looked at his mother, who was fixing her hair and avoiding her son’s gaze.

“I asked you, wh-“

“He doesn’t have to say anything if he doesn’t want to.” His mother spoke again, cutting him off. Her expression was of pure defiance as she faced Emerson.

“I see.” His voice was uncomfortably calmer now. He then grinned wickedly as he faced her. “I should have just killed you instead.”

In one quick motion Emerson took out his dagger again and slid it across the elven woman’s throat. It was so fast, Isaiah did not even know what happened at first. Isaiah yelled out at him, not thinking as he ran towards Emerson. Nazirath stopped him, using the blood from his bleeding wrist to cast a spell that would freeze him in place.

Emerson gave out an annoyed sigh as he looked at the body of Dirana. “Deal with the kid, I’ll get someone to clean up this mess.” He said as he left the room.

Nazirath circled Isaiah. “You bad, bad boy.” She said, he voice as smooth as silk. “Did you really think you’d get away from trying to attack my father?”

Her hand twitched in a snapping motion; Isaiah was free of the freezing spell but his body was filled with a sharp pain. He fell to the floor, gasping for air. But she was not done. She took out her own dagger and grabbed him by the wrist to make another cut.

“Mommy’s not here to save you now.” She taunted. She casted another spell on him. This time it felt as if his insides were burning, curled up on the floor he whimpered in pain wishing for her to stop. When she snapped her fingers, it was gone, but Isaiah still did not feel good. He coughed violently until he ended up spitting blood on the floor.

“Dammit, why the fuck did you bleed on the floor. That’s another mess we need to clean up.” She yelled.

She casted one more spell, sending a shock wave of pain throughout his body. He shouted in pain, urging her to stop. He held this spell longer than the last two, but finally it was over. She walked over to him, pulling up to stand and cupping his face with one of her hands. “I assume you know your place now, yes?”

“…Yes.” He said quietly.

“Go clean yourself up, you look hideous.”

He kept his head low as he walked back to the slaves’ quarters. He did not go to clean himself up right away as told, but instead found his bed and buried himself under the covers and cried. He couldn’t help but think that it was his fault Emerson killed his mother, if he just said what he wanted him too, then none of this would ever had happened. He tried to sob as quietly as he could, but he gained the attention of someone. Varrisa; another slave. She had always been kind to Isaiah. Varrisa knelt down by the bed, facing him, a sad expression on her face. “I heard what happened, Isaiah I-“ She stopped there, unsure what to say. She had a very dark skin tone and black hair. She was only a few years older than Isaiah, but the two of them had become friends. Like him, she also was born into slavery, but too a different master at first until she was sold again and ended up with Emerson.

“It’s my fault.” Isaiah said.

“It’s not.” She replied.

He did not have the will to argue, as more tears came to his eyes. He regretted ever fighting with his mother the night before, maybe if he didn’t then she would not have felt the need to protect him today. She would have just pretend it was not happening, like always.

“You stay here today, I’ll take your duties. You need to rest.” She told him. Isaiah tried to protest but she insisted. Once she had left, he tried to fall back asleep again.

When Isaiah woke, it was night. He stayed there, thinking about how in that one moment he wanted to attack Emerson, he was filled with so much rage that at the time he did not know what he was thinking; just that he wanted Emerson dead. Isaiah got up and silently walked the halls of the mansion. He found himself in the kitchen. Isaiah opened up one of the cupboards and took out a large knife meant for cutting meat. He hid it in his cloths as he walked down the hallways again. Emerson would be going to sleep soon, maybe he could kill him in his sleep? He intended to hide in the magister’s room, and strike when he finally fast asleep. But as he walked down the halls, he heard footsteps behind him. Panicked, he darted into the nearest broom closet. He left the door ajar so that he could still see what was outside.

Through the crack Isaiah saw that it was Emerson. The mage was already dressed in his nightgowns, ready for bed. Isaiah’s heart beat fast with panic, what if he saw him? He only had one shot to kill him, what if he messed it up? Doubt filled his mind as he watched Emerson walk to the bedroom. Then he stopped. Isaiah held his hand over his mouth, fearing his heavy breathing was going to give him away. In a curious manner, Emerson walked towards the closet. He was so close now, it was perfect. If he didn’t strike now then he would have to wait till he was asleep. But what if Emerson opened the closet? This was probably Isaiah’s only chance in killing the man. He made up his mind quickly and jumped through the door, digging the knife deep in the mages neck. Emerson choked out a surprised gasp, but he was too far gone to do anything now. He eyed Isaiah with a look full of rage as he finally passed.

Something in Isaiah’s mind snapped back to reality. Had he really just killed a man? No, it had to be a dream; this could not be real. He stared at Emerson’s body in shock. ‘What have I done?’ He thought in horror. He couldn’t stay here, there was no way. Someone would find his body and it would not take them long to figure out Isaiah was the murderer. Thinking quickly, he went into Emerson’s room and grabbed one of his robes from his wardrobe. Emerson was a larger man than he, so it took some time to try to fit it so that it would at least look presentable. The bagginess of the clothes would actually help him hide his identity as an elf as he fled Tevinter. He had no idea where he was going, but all he knew that south was where he needed to go. One last thing before he left was searched Emerson’s room for something of value, for he would need at least some coin to make it by. Eventually, he found what he needed; The Ashwell family crest. He stuffed it in his oversized pockets and opened up the bedroom window where he slipped out. He was used to slipping out of the mansion, he had done it quite often as a child to explore the gardens and rarely would he had gotten caught.

As he ran from the dreaded mansion, a pang of guilt tug at him. He would be leaving Varissa without even saying goodbye, or offering to help her escape as well. The other slaves might be punished for his escape and crime as well, he wondered if they would be able to forgive them. He prayed that one day, they would find their freedom as well.


End file.
